#schwantner

...And The Mountains Rising Nowhere

by Joseph Schwantner

Conductor handed us this chart.

Concert in two weeks. Kill me now.

Schwantner. Music problems can I just make one with his name?

Joseph C. Schwantner (born March 22, 1943 in Chicago, Illinois) is a Pulitzer Prize winning American composer and educator and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He was awarded the 1970 Charles Ives Prize.

Schwantner - Black Anemones [w/ score]

Carl Nielsen Maskarade, Overture

Joseph Schwantner Percussion Concerto with Michael Pawlak

Modest Mussorgsky Pictures at an Exhibition, arr Tushmalov

I picked up this new recording from the Nashville Symphony for a couple of reasons: (1) they're my hometown orchestra--and a fine one at that, and (2) I was actually present on one of the nights that they recorded the fantastic percussion concerto that closes out the album. A good recording for the collection, I thought. 

As it turns out, the two other pieces on this recording, Morning's Embrace and the title track, Chasing Light were written by Joseph Schwantner (yet another Pulitzer Prize winner, and another esteemed member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters) at his home in rural New Hampshire (my home state—Live Free or Die!) as program music meant to evoke sunrises in that great state. Here, I thought, was something I was already an expert in!

So I decided to dig into the first of these pieces, Morning's Embrace, to see if I could hear what I'd heretofore only seen (and loved, and missed excruciatingly). I seem to remember that he lives somewhere in the mountains, perhaps toward Vermont. That gave me the images I needed: the leaves in shocking colors, the stark and majestic White Mountains, the Kancamagus, Lake Winnipesaukee, maybe the lovely campuses at Dartmouth, Exeter, or my alma mater (why not?), Pinkerton Academy.

Before I gush about Schwantner's ear for tonal color instrumentation, I will say that I never found those sunrises quite so percussive as he did; however, it seems percussion is kind of his wheelhouse, and he's at least creative with it (not just tympani, bass, and cymbals). Even as I write that, I think of how common it is when one is out and about in New Hampshire's woods to be startled by a deer, a fox, or even a moose, and then the outbursts of percussion make perfect sense. So what I'll say is that perhaps Schwantner watches his sunrises from outside (where one should watch them) and not behind a plate of glass, as I seem to have framed them.

Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way. I suppose it's time to gush a little.

The buildup of this piece is very much like the rising of the sun—gradual, and unpredictable. Just as you never know when the soft halo of light around a tree will cast a rogue beam of sunlight squarely into your eye (or your bedroom window), Schwantner's composition unfolds gently, punctuated by a pedal tone (of muted piano), occasional growls of brass, and the tinkling of bells and upper woodwinds which draw the music forward as the Earth's rotation appears to tug the sun up from its resting place.

The waking of birds and other fauna, the blossoming of flowers (as the stretching of one's arms at the apex of the morning's first yawn), the eerie stillness before the first car starts in earshot—they're all here. And as the piece builds, you get the sense that it won't be long now before there's not an inch of refuge from the light, and there's nary an animal still at rest.

I envy Mr. Schwantner what he gets to see from his house, or from his proch, or lawn, or a path in the woods. As far as I can tell, there are precious few places in the United States that can match New Hampshire's beauty at a given time of year. He has done the sunrise—at least this morning's sunrise—justice. It's a fine piece, with gorgeous color, interesting texture, and many moments of warming light.

I think this piece would sit very nicely next to any of the symphonies so far by those more pastoral American composers—Hanson, Ward, or Harris, maybe—or certainly Copland, who was sort of their spiritual father, so to speak.

Anyway, give it a listen—it's about the length of a short symphony, at 20 minutes, and if you like any of the aforementioned composers, there's probably something in there for you.

Recording Used